


’til death do us part, and beyond

by grumkin_snark



Series: Comment Fics [31]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 05:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16111895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: “My father...he never thought the throne would pass to him, and yet it did. He used to say that was his punishment for the blow that slew his brother.I pray he found the peace in death that he never knew in life.”





	’til death do us part, and beyond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Juliet316](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juliet316/gifts).



> Prompt is the title, found [here.](https://fic-promptly.dreamwidth.org/531619.html?thread=15710627)

_It isn’t fair._

She thinks that in a sulk when her malaise turns into a cough, when she has to avoid the nameday celebration for her youngest. She doesn’t want to risk exposing her two-year-old to her ailment, no matter how minor, and anyway, there would be dozens more namedays she could commemorate.

_It isn’t fair._

She thinks that with a mite of worry when the cough doesn’t go away, when spots of blood appear on her handkerchiefs. Even then, her worry does not consume her. She recalls her uncle recovering just fine from a similar cough long ago.

_It isn’t fair._

She thinks that with fear when her breaths come in labored rattles, when she grows gaunt and wakes in cold sweats. She asks her husband to stay away, lest whatever this is have a chance to spread to their children. He obeys for their sake, but is anguished to do it. Princess Elaena tries to comfort her with facts and probabilities, and even Princess Rhaena voyages from the Vale to pray for her.

_It isn’t fair._

She thinks that when she spends more time asleep than awake, when Maekar staunchly refuses to abide by her wishes and spends morning, noon, and night at her bedside. Daeron visits her second-most, his eyes clear with sobriety—a plea with the gods, he says, as though his abstinence would make a difference.

_It isn’t fair._

She thinks that when her eyes shut as Maekar kisses her forehead, when the next moment she feels healthy again and is greeted by her mother and Queen Naerys.

“No,” she says, certain this must be a dream, but when she tries to run from their ghosts, it is as if she is back in her chambers, far above its occupants.

She sees herself, pale as death; she sees her love weeping over her body; she sees her good-brother tug him away; she sees Daeron in the corner of his room, drinking straight from a bottle.

_It isn’t fair._

She thinks that as the years pass, at first slow as molasses and thrice as painful as her illness ever was. It takes her a year to fully accept what had happened, despite the support and understanding from those many who had succumbed before her.

She meets those she could never have while living: Good Queen Alysanne, steadfast Alyssa Velaryon, jilted Rhaenyra, sorrowful Aegon III who perished of the same malady she did.

In time, more and more people she  _did_  know appear. Dear Baelor is first, and he acknowledges her by swearing he knows what happened was an accident. She appreciates that.

Mere months later, seven come all at once. That causes grief but also joy, in a way, to see them once again. For Baelor more than for her. However glad she is to see her good-parents, Baelor’s boys, and all the rest, for however glad she is that the sickness had deigned to skip her family, she remains alone.

Eventually, after too many years to count, one of her family does appear. A mother could never choose amongst her children, but all the same, Daeron will always be her firstborn. He was the first babe she felt kick inside her, the first to feed at her breast, the first to call her mama. It was her he trusted before anyone else with his dreams, her whose guidance he sought when they threatened to overwhelm him. He was the first to fill her with more love than she ever thought possible, and now he is the first to help her mend.

Then arrives Aerion.

Though she had been forced to witness her second son descend into madness and meet his end through wildfire, he is still her son and she embraces him as such. He is confused; truly, he had thought he would morph into a dragon. But here, madness is calmed for those who could not help themselves, and so it is for Aerion, too.

She had watched for all these years as her husband persevered through all his grief as she knew he would, though he had given into it in private on many an occasion. She had wanted nothing more than to assuage his guilt and his agony, but she could not. She could only watch.

She would not have begrudged him had he decided to find love again, or even simply a wife wed out of duty. He never does, though plenty suggest he ought.  _You are only three-and-forty_ , one advisor tells him a decade after she is laid to rest.  _Shouldn’t the realm have a queen?_

His face had twisted, his fist had swung, the advisor’s jaw had broken, and no one dared ask him again.

He is fearsome at Starpike, as he has always been in battle; but he is nigh on sixty and his reflexes are not what they once were. When he falls, it is her name he murmurs, and finally, finally,  _finally_ , he can see her, too. He looks as he did when she had died, his hair silver instead of gray, his wrinkles faded, his stature broad.

“Anna,” is all he can say, all he  _needs_  to say.

“My love.”

His kiss is as familiar as her own heartbeat, and for the first time in twenty-six years, they are at peace.


End file.
